Living and Crying on Technology Drive or This Could Happen To You!

ripWatching your computer in its death throes, [“I’ll back it up some day”] spinning its last breath, unable to catch its Windows screen, is a learning moment. After 7 years of faithful service or 70 human years, I was ready to close the eyes, I mean the lid, on my Toshiba Satellite. The cause of death wasn’t old age; it was Windows Update.

Windows Update was supposed to allow you to not think about the health or tweaks of your system – sort of a wannabe Mac.  When it works, and when it’s in its youth it does, it’s great.  It doesn’t age well.

Problems with Windows start with a mad search on Google forums, which frequently come up with the casual advice “Reinstall Windows.”

Do you know how many people can really reinstall Windows? Only a puny and smug tech portion of the end user population.  To pile on more grief, you’ll need to reinstall all your other software, remember all your passwords and bookmarks, etc. etc.

It ALMOST makes me want a Mac.

Windows Update is a lackadaisical employee, leaving my available memory and hard drive to actually work. When it gets ambitious, it causes a loop, sucking the air out of the hard drive and causing the keyboard to work in slow motion.  Then I manually go in and allow it to update the system.

The brakes went on my hard drive the other day, and I decided to run chkdsk /f /r, which is like tweezers to your brow – plucks out the wild hairs and you’re on your way. This requires a reboot. Unfortunately, Windows Update also decided to force an update, which started the uh-oh.

The laptop hung at 11% chkdsk – after rebooting, oh, 10 times or so.  I was forced to use my husband’s Mac and found one rogue remark on a support site that simply suggested to wait it out.

The next morning we had a Lazarus moment – my StarTrek background on my screen greeted me, like nothing had happened.  I ripped out a jump drive and backed up and sent things off to Drop Box.  I haven’t lost the love, but there’s definitely a trust issue now.

Here’s my advice

1. Check those stupid updates – I checked the last 8 by choosing “more information” – most of them are for tasks or software you don’t do or have.
2. Don’t run chkdsk – find some 3rd party piece to do it for you – it’s just too dicey otherwise
3. I’m not going to tell you to back up – you can’t possibly be as careless as I am, are you?



Guns, Goats and Gateway Drugs

Guns and Goats

Guns and Goats

As the two sides of this argument gather their ammo, global and national statistics are being pulled and molded like taffy.  Statistics are chatter: the meat’s in the subtexts; human nature, mental illness and the 2nd Amendment.

Pulitzer Prize winning book ‘Guns, Germs, and Steel’ covers 13,000 years of human history to explain how Western Europe came out on top.  The more sophisticated the weaponry became the higher the number died in combat vs. disease.  The good news was, as weaponry advanced, so did the culture and technology.  This end product was launched by the male of our species whose testosterone causes the strongest males to survive and multiply and and females, assisted by pheromones and common sense choosing males who will protect their young.  We’re just like goats, just a little smarter.

21st century males no longer duke it out.  Non sports-minded young men lean toward hours of Xbox games, pit bull puppies and collecting knives and/or guns.  On the sunset side, older men substitute testosterone with flashy cars, fat wallets, guns and political heft.  Some men are driven to scrimmaging in the woods with conspiracy theories in their imagination because they must be fighting against something in order to achieve hormonal balance. Guns have the same testosterone driven draw as a well honed spear once did.

In the middle of the testosterone fray are the mentally ill and adolescent males (“Poster Children for Risky Compulsiveness”) and non-Alpha males.  They’re all looking for a bitch, just like any other goat which will bring out and up their testosterone.  Which brings me to the allure of the holding a hard cold gun in ones hand.

While the original intent of the 2nd Amendment was in response to England’s aggression against its colonists (keeping people “in their place” is an Alpha Goat kind of response),  its text and context has been manhandled.  If we are purists of the law, if I have the right to bear arms to protect myself from the government, I have the right to own the newest, best arms.  I can’t protect myself with a semiautomatic if my government has cooler, better weapons, right?  How about nuclear warheads?  How about drones?  That’s what the 2nd amendment means, right?  Either you give everyone, and by everyone I mean the mentally ill and the testosterone-challenged the right to have lethal weapons of mass destruction – or you don’t.

Semi-automatics are a gateway drug to nuclear warheads.  The irony is that the hormone protecting and promoting our survival can lead to its last chapter, making the goats smarter species  in the long run.

*Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies Jared M. Diamond  1997  Winner of the Pulitzer Prize, the Phi Beta Kappa Award in Science, the Rhone-Poulenc Prize, and the Commonwealth club of California’s Gold Medal.


Something’s … different.  It may not be tens of pounds lost: it’s the lift in my step; the natural pace faster.   I pull out my reading glasses to scrutinize nutrition labels; shun the old comfort food standbys after learning, say, that the average tuna salad sandwich is about 600 calories.  On the library shelf and on the store’s magazine rack my eye is caught by health themes; better workouts, more flexibility.  Something’s changed.

I’m annoyed when I can’t make it to the gym and be with friends trying to improve their health; chat about the upcoming 5K.  I’m frustrated if I can’t bike or swim or walk.   While waiting in line I sometimes stretch my hamstrings, unthinking.  Roll my shoulders.  I can feel the tightness in my calves if I sit for too long.

I threw out those old baggy pants that never looked good, even when they fit.  I scrutinize the mirror before going out: I haven’t looked at the mirror, really, honestly, in years.   I’m restless when sitting still, watching TV. I’ve changed.

Thanks to all who make me itchy and antsy and pacey and stretchy and yearning for a movier me.

Gym membership and Summer Go Hand in Hand

I just enjoyed this past week swimming at the local beach, power walking the SUNY campus roads and taking long bike rides.  Why belong to a gym when there are so many easy, free outdoor activities?  Quickly looking at the calendar year and the human brain will explain why I’m taking advantage of the gorgeous summer days while keeping my gym membership.

A quick seasonal gallop through Long Island starts with a Spring that fights and finally wins over winter, but not until about mid-April, then blooms in May and just about all of June.  July and August raise the temperature and humidity and the frequency of thunderstorms.  We are a Testy, Muggy, Mosquito Buggy place.  We wheeze up the air conditioner and huddle inside, avoiding the 97+ degree heat with 90% humidity.  We can venture to the beach now but crowds swarm the public beaches and the horse flies are impervious to anything other than a gun.  Autumn breezes in and we reclaim the road and water and then the real Fall starts creeping in, arguing with the temperature, causes lots of rain and beating Summer out .  The roads become treacherous for bikes with the rain, leaves, and school bus and college traffic; and then winter.  There’s a window of about 3 summer months and 2 Fall months where Life is Perfect.  That means there are 7 months of Life Being Imperfect.  Then there’s that little thing called willpower.

We can’t help it, dear as we are.  We are looking for any excuse to avoid what’s good for us; human nature.  With the ratio of capricious weather outweighing the good and you realize you need that gym.  It is the chain that links the lifestyle picture together, visiting with your gym-buddies on off-weather days, learning what they’re doing outside the gym for fun.  Maybe you learn about a 5K or chat with someone’s who’s training for an Iron Man.  It is your gym connections that keep you not only going to the gym but also enjoying exercise outside the gym.

So live it up: swim and bike and kayak and run and walk the dog.  When a rainy day or muggy day or too-many-kids-on-the-beach day arises, hit the gym.  Your personal trainer brings motivation and success if prepping to ramp up for any sport.  The Yoga, Zoomba and Boot Camp classes keep you connected to your fellow travelers; keep you going.  Keep it going by keeping connected: that’s the key to success.

Five Farms in Essenstadt Ohio

Meyer Farm is on a rise overlooking the others in town, not in judgment; modest; self conscious, trying to shy away.  It has haphazard stone walls, or paths or a labyrinth: depending on where and who you are.  If you are a goose, flying with your geese, the piles of stone become lines and look like the earth has cracked and crazed.  If you are a woodrat, you see with your nose, an easily trailed scent where birds and bugs and moles have left their history tucked beneath pieces of granite and quarts giving a heady, rich scent; dead things and live things mingle.  If you are a farmer walking his acre, it’s a frustrating place and you pick and hurl the rocks that seem to come endlessly from the earth, without end, so you wonder if you are harvesting rocks.  If you are walking by, or driving by on the road, you see braids of rocks lying across the land.  You also see crops.  If you were a thief, coming to steal food, say, the strawberries, the manic rock trails would trip you up: cut and break you.  If it was daylight and you were the harvester of all these gardens, and it was a good day, a day overcast and cool a change of day from other days because you knew you wouldn’t be sweating straight through your clothes, you could eat and graze as you harvested between the maddening stones and be content for a few hours that you had help feed this posse.

The farmhouse stretches long; an add-on house wandering like a weasel trying to catch its own tail.  Some rooms are rotting away, the roof fallen in.  Plastic or board or even long tails of grass are heaped upon the holes in the roof, making it a passageway, to another room.  There’s somewhat of a summer kitchen and a winter kitchen and a storage barn for the food (which is the best kept and closed room – see it there?  The one where the large spotted dog is sleeping on the door sill, sunning himself, but you know that dog – you do.  One foot placed in its direction and the large head will rise up and… decide.)

Jargon’s Farm rests on a hilly wavy land, as if the ocean passed a gentle wave and left its mold on the earth and the farmhouse was a ship, holding on.  It’s on a watery then dry patch of land and Jargon’s unwilling to surrender to the lands curvy figure; trying to box it in, force it into a girdle of raised garden boxes.  The boxes tumble first one way then another, the water from the valleys of the waves flood the soil and the rises dry the tops, so that the only thing that truly grows well are the weeds.  His house was built in an equally stubborn manner, unyielding.  Even though the Jargons built the house, they can not control its decision, and it has eased into the bosom of the land and now waves with it, the floors that rise up and down in the kitchen (Farmer Jargon cursing as he walks uphill to the kitchen sink), the windows that can no long be open because the sills rest up or down in a slight wink from their panes,  the front stairs split then rested in sags or cracks.   Still, the house, from far away has a dear embraceable look, more sensible than all the stiff boxes, because it’s surrendered to the land.

Che Che’s farm looks foreign in this American land: you discern some other country’s logic and art.  Her family chose the highest spot because it was the cheapest land.  That was all they could afford but they had hope, it tilting clefts toward town, but remaining aloof and superior.   A forest of out-of-place bamboo stands stiff on the northern side.  There are no straight American rows or strict confining boxes.  The plants follow the land like braided corn rows on a head.  Sideways, sideways, sideways they turn with the land that’s way up forcing your chin up, holding the soil with their horizontal grip.  Oddly stones stay where they are: plants are simply interspersed amongst their impositions.  From your spot on the road, it doesn’t look like a farm at all: it looks like a mountain meadow.  There are many out buildings, and the main house is small with large sliding doors made of bamboo (which grows quickly and anywhere with its persistent shallow roots).  These doors are open or shut depending on the weather and the job at hand.  Work and life flows in and out of the farmhouse like a stream, closing up for the night, open during a summer day.  In the winter great sheaves of bamboo and straw seal some of the doors shut for the long cold nap.     There are two long haired cows whose manure is piled against a cement block wall that acts as a massive wall of warmth and when the spring comes, it is fed to the soil that grows the grass that feeds the cows.

Jonathan Storley’s farm was stolen, stolen from a suffering uninformed gullible family forced to pay off debt and he usurped it as you would rape a bride.  He has taken the house, and made it his proudly own with perfect clapboard, a picturebook wrap around porch, sheep so snowy white they look like they bathe every night and a garden, ah the garden.  Nothing dares to be out of place in that garden.  Every path knows its course, every plant know what it must do – or else.  The Storley family works day and night to keep this almost imaginery farm appearing as if the family was a group of supermen.  It is one child’s and one dog’s job to take all the stones and throw them into a specific pile in the woods.  It’s become a mountain and the poor child and the poor dog (there’s been several hump backed children and dogs) who drag this dross off to the pile and then up it.  All the Storley’s are stooped and sore so they cannot stand proud and insolent.  All the Storley’s think their farm, of course is the best, and all the Storely’s look down on their neighbors’ lack of ambition.

The Smithson farm is a hidden farm.  You won’t see it from the road if you are going to fast, if your mind is thinking on other things.  You have to work to see the Smithson farm.  The house is set way back from the road, and their driveway curves.   All you think you’re seeing are woods, but it’s really food.  The bushes are blueberry, and currants and the canes of raspberries and blackberries (don’t try to sneak on the lot there with those blackberries in the dark  – they’ll bit you and catch you like a thousand needles), and the trees are wild nut trees, walnuts and hazelnuts and strawberries line the feet of the bushes, wild grapes clot the trees.   As you head around the turns in the road, chickens run wild while quail and rabbits are cloistered in large homemade stick cages.  The gossip in town is that they take the chickens, quails and rabbits into the house if the weather becomes poorly.

The Smithson farmhouse is made of any type of plastic, wood, boxes, pallets, broken tile, car parts, tin cans and broken bottles, mosaic style in a house that you are not sure if it’s art or madness.  Windows of all ilk and shape are haphazardly placed about like they were flung on by a random hand.  You can’t tell how many floors there are in the farmhouse because of their wicked randomness.

The Smithson’s are the only ones around with a sprouting garden.  There plants are allowed to bolt; to grow until they reach the point of seed emission; they pop.  These are collected, harvested for the winter months and when soaked, create seedlings which have an enormous amount of punch for their size, protein and nutrients in a natural seed packet.    After the plants reach their climax and most of the seed is harvested, the chickens are encouraged to visit the beds and they in turn clean up all the debris: the plant husks, the leftover seed, the roots, and bugs and pests.  The rabbit and quail cages and placed like hats over the gardens to further fertilize the soil and a more perfect fertilizer could not be bought.  You rarely see the Smithson’s: they are really a commune of sorts of several families.  They are helpful when asked, silent when not, and they look to be the worst dressed and best fed of the entire village.

Rain and thunderstorms: To 5K or NOT to 5K …. hmmm…

Lightning warnings run throughout the early morning in past noon.  The road’s already slick with last night’s downpour and the silt of fallen leaves, pollen and whatall.  Having fallen on slippery, hilly, LI north shore roads in the past with scrapery, knee-ish results, I am fall-shy.  So I decided this morning notto run in a 5K.

I LOVE the 5K’s because they push me along; make me chug faster, I-think-I-can, I-think-I-can, red faced and out of breath I enjoy crossing that finish line, even if I’m almost last.

My ever practical spouse asked me, “Why don’t you train for these races? Try to improve your time?”  Oddly enough, I never thought of training or improving.  I was just trying to get out there and do it, Get-er-done.  The track, which is less than five minutes away, could be a great option.

I’ve got to do SOMETHING – something for one hour at least- so this is the mindset – either bike, walk, run, swim or go to the gym.

What a turn around from doing… well… nothing.  So when it rains, you can still pour – pour on the sweat – somewhere.

The journey from No to Yes

I didn’t want to, to leave the cool interior on this muggy day; to climb into a muggy old car with no A/C to swim in the late-May Long Island sound.  I definitely didn’t want to go alone; no friend or co-swimmer or cheerleader.  What if I just went out on my deck and just brought the bathing suit in?  What if I just put it on?  What if I just got into my car and drove to the beach, that’s all?  What if I just walked into the water, freezing, freezing!  I swore a whispering curse, looking at the children playing and staying on the beach because the water was too cold and choppy with wild evening breezes.  Two lone swimmers; triathlon women were finishing up their strokes.  One pointed out the one mile distance – I nodded – scary – eventually? Do-able.  What if I just dunked my head – oh!  Maybe just one or two strokes – that’s it.  I managed to do about a quarter mile with many breaks, back strokes, panting; easier going in the tidal pull down the beach – rough going, with a strong wind, current holding me back on the return.  Now, how did I feel?  How would I have felt if I hadn’t gone?